Becoming Notes
by Killpurakat
Summary: Little LOOM ficlet. What were Bobbin Threadbare's thoughts as he flew away at the end of the game?


Becoming Notes

A LOOM Fanfic by Killpura Kat

Author's note: Um, yeah, don't know where this came from, but once it popped in my head, I couldn't stop in from being written. For the record, I've only seen it played, never actually played the game myself.

Disclaimer: LOOM belongs to LucasArts, although I really wish they would bring back the classic point-and-click adventure games. With the Wii, it wouldn't be that hard…

He could recall the feeling as he touched the wood of the distaff, the small rush of wonder and awe as he picked up the tool of his craft. He hadn't known how to use it, had never dreamed he would be able to use such an instrument to create drafts.

Hetchel had told him he might, one day, but her voice had always petered out as she talked. She didn't believe it either.

But when that swan, that gorgeous creature he recalled from his birthdays past, crashed into the window and cast light on the Loom and made the greatest instrument sing out the notes of Transcendence, his world changed forever.

Not just his world. The world. Everything.

And then he was the last. The only Weaver left in the entire world.

Which meant the distaff was his. And when he touched it, he knew that. Knew, in fact, how to make it work and how to use it, despite no teacher to instruct him.

Freeing Hetchel had been his first draft, and even looking back, it amazed him to think he had made such a bold move. Surely the Elders would have forbidden him.

But the swan took them all away. All their lofty ideals and harsh glares from under their woven hoods. Gone with the playing of a few simple notes.

Those notes. He'd never understood the exact importance of the notes before. Had never really understood how invaluable they were, how ingrained they were.

Let the glass-blowers speak of clarity, the forgers of steel, and the herders of their flocks. Truly, the most fundamental of all existences was sound, and in pure sound there were the notes.

It started in the distaff, the sound vibrating ever so slightly down the wooden pole until it jolted through his arm and into his being, where it lingered and begged to be given specifics. Bobbin would hold the distaff and imagine which sounds he wanted to hear, and that jolt would rush out into the distaff again and sing through the wood. And then the notes emerged.

He had never imagined the fulfillment that came from weaving drafts.

But he had only been able to weave because he was the last. All the others had flown away and left him, the gray thread, the Loom child, the outcast.

His mother must have had great faith in him. She truly loved him, of that he had no doubt, for she risked her existence each year just to see him on the day of his birth.

It had been this year that she truly saved him. And possibly the world. Her interference and manipulation of the Loom after the Elders cast Transcendence on Hetchel stopped them from destroying Bobbin, who in turn stopped Chaos.

Although, if Bobbin had not left the island, the Cleric would not have gotten hold of the distaff and called Chaos forth in the first place. And perhaps Hetchel might still be alive.

But no, Bobbin couldn't believe that. The tapestry of time had started to unravel. They all knew that. It was probably only a matter of time before something happened, and given the persistent nature of Chaos, his release was likely inevitable.

The Cleric. Bobbin felt sorry for the man. Not really sorry for his fate, since the man thought himself a god. But Bobbin was sorry he had given the man the tools he needed to release Chaos.

And he was sorry he let the man touch his distaff. The notes that had come forth had been correct, but with an ugly tone to them, like a thin film of oil on water.

Now, if he focused, he could hear Chaos screaming in rage in the background of his mind, despite the entity being nowhere near him or his mother or the others.

The others. His mother. Odd to be with them.

Almost as odd as to no longer be human.

Odd, indeed, for Bobbin to feel happy about all that had occurred and know that he was so.

Although his beak couldn't quite pull off the muscle movements a pair of fleshy lips could, he managed to smile as he continued to fly with his flock, carrying the tear far away from Chaos.

After all, when had he been happy as a human?

He once thought it a terrible shame that those banished were transformed into birds, unable to use a distaff or weave drafts. Only able to survive.

How foolish. The notes never came from the distaff, never came from the outside world. They were more, those insubstantial sounds that wove together to change the world around them. He remembered listening anytime he heard anything, just to catch those notes.

He knew where to find them now. Where to find them, always. Where they had always been waiting for him to befriend and use.

His mother, at the head of the flock taking the tear away from Chaos and those who would dare use it for evil, turned and gazed at him, her son and the last Weaver child. The last Weaver that had walked the world and changed it with melodies and music.

He stared back, happier and prouder than he had ever hoped to be. He had a family now, a purpose. The world was without the Guild of Weavers, but they had not yet abandoned it. They would save it and those left.

He and his mother and the rest of the flock.

As they continued to carry the tear beyond the plains of sheep and the destroyed Forge, he laughed and let a merry little draft drift down below.

Maybe Rusty or Fleece would hear it and think of him. He planned to return and help them as they battled Chaos.

The Weavers were gone, but they would not be forgotten if Bobbin the gray thread had anything to say about it. He would return, and teach the world.

He'd become the notes that had and would change the world forever.


End file.
